


Play to the Whistle

by bluelinespecial



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, New York Rangers, Safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelinespecial/pseuds/bluelinespecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Prust makes a careless mistake on the ice, Brian decides he needs to learn a little discipline, and is more than willing to teach Brandon about...restraint. *eyebrow waggle*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play to the Whistle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ back in June 2012—I never got around to uploading any of my fic here. This fic takes place during the 2011-2012 NHL season. Thanks to the P to my B for the beta!

It's not that Brandon did anything  _wrong_  exactly. Torts knew what was coming, that's why Prust was there for the opening face-off at all, paired against Rinaldo and his pile of minutes. And Simmonds had been asking for trouble all day, starting with fucking with Avery, which is why he and Prust ended up in the box with matching conduct minors.  
  
But Brandon was so single-mindedly determined to fuck Simmonds up the moment they were out of the box, he didn't even see Gabby, and while nothing bad happened other than Gabby being mildly embarrassed, Torts was clearly annoyed by the miscue.   
  
Torts will probably give Prust a few words of caution. Just a little reminder that their team identity this year has a huge focus on discipline, and while that doesn't mean taking shit from other teams, it does mean showing some control, like not knocking down their own boys in blue.  
  
And Brandon will take that to heart, but Brian has some extra reinforcement in mind—something far more interesting than mere words.  
  
  
  
They have another game at home—makes for a nice Pennsylvania sweep, the Flyers then the Pens—before they jump on a plane down to Raleigh. It's late when they finally get to the hotel, so Brian knows he'll wait for tomorrow—later today, technically. They sleep late the next morning, not getting up until nearly noon.  
  
"We skating?" Brandon asks, stretching groggily. Brian watches through sleep-droopy eyes, watches the muscles shift under his roommate's skin, lets his eyes drift down Brandon's spine to the top of his ass. No underpants, which is always a good sign.   
  
There's an optional skate today, but Brian knows that he has much better drills to run with Brandon. "Naw. We can go over, uh, strategy here."  
  
Prusty turns to look at him, a little smirk on his face, a knowing glint in his eyes, and Brian smiles a little. "Strategy, huh?"  
  
Brian nods, hums an affirmation. "Coach wanted me to hit a few points with you."  
  
When Brandon lets out a snort of amusement, Brian stands up. "But we should eat, first." He steps past Brandon, running a hand over his bare shoulder. "You'll need your strength."  
  
He loves the feel of the shiver that runs through Brandon. Maybe this plan will be easier than he thinks.  
  
  
  
They come back in a couple hours, putting their coats on hangers, and that's when Brian tells Brandon what's going on.  
  
"I know Coach talked to you about keeping your discipline," he says, figuring there's no point in beating around the bush today. "But I thought I'd reinforce him with a more... hands-on lesson."  
  
Brandon smirks. "You're gonna teach me discipline?" He starts to walk away, so Brain reaches out and grabs his wrist.  
  
"I am," he says, looking into Brandon's eyes. "I'm going to teach you discipline." He waits a beat, licks his lips. " _Restraint_."  
  
"Please!" Brandon scoffs, pulling his hand out of Brian's loose grip; he waves his hand as to prove his point. "You might be a fucking giant, but you know I can take you." The smirk is back on his face, and Brian finds the casual disobedience enough to sharpen his tone.  
  
"Sit," he commands, pointing to the bed.  
  
There isn't any hesitation on Prust's part; he sits down on the bed, watching Brian with wide, blue eyes. Brian can tell that Brandon has no idea _why_  he sat, why he obeyed so instinctively. He steps over, reaching out with one hand to run over Brandon's head—once, twice, and then his hand stills, fingers in Brandon's curls.  
  
"It's about trust, Bran. Your teammates  _have_  to trust you. They'll trust you if you stay disciplined. You have to trust them, too." He leans down closer. "Do you trust  _this_  teammate to respect you in the morning?"  
  
Brandon's eyes haven't left Brian's and he's barely blinked. His lips part slightly, and Brian has to exercise some restraint of his own to not lick those soft lips, suck them into his mouth and bite them. But he has a job to do, a responsibility to his team, and he's not going to let himself lose focus. His fingers tighten in Brandon's hair.  
  
"So. Do you trust me?" He waits a beat while Brandon still just stares at him then breathes out, " _Answer_."  
  
He can see Brandon's adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. "Yes. I trust you." There's an odd pause, and Brian somehow feels like maybe Brandon almost tacked on a "sir" at the end of that sentence. The idea of asking for it, of demanding that respect, is a tempting one, but perhaps it's a bit too soon for that. He likes it enough that Brandon almost did it on his own, anyway.  
  
He unclenches his fingers, letting them run through Brandon's loose curls again, petting him as a reward. "Good," he says, his voice quiet but confident.  
  
Brian has never done this before, but is surprised to find that he hasn't had to think much about what to do, what is needed. Somehow it feels natural. Maybe it's from being the middle child in a litter of thirteen, taking orders from above and passing them down below whenever he could get away with it. The middle child is meant to be the peacemaker, he's always heard, but maybe the middle child just has the best sense of how to handle everyone else around him.  
  
He kneels in front of Brandon, because this next part is important, and they should be on the same physical level, rather than Brian looming over him. He runs his fingers lightly down Brandon's temple from his hair, stroking over the light beard that seems to permanently (deliciously) scruff up Brandon's face. His other hand finds the inside of Brandon's thigh, running up and down the inseam of his jeans slowly.  
  
"You need to trust yourself, too," he says, nodding a little as he holds Brandon's gaze. "Know when you're at your limits. Know when to blow the whistle." His thumb moves to brush lightly over the soft lips he still desperately wants to kiss. He feels Brandon suck in air quickly. "What's your whistle gonna be, Brandon?"   
  
He doesn't know if Brandon's had any experience with this sort of thing, so it's a little surprising when the answer comes almost immediately. "Blueshirts." Brandon's voice is almost a whisper, but it's not uncertain at all. Brian thinks that he should remember to ask, later, if he's ever used that before. (He's curious, not jealous; they promised each other not to get jealous.)  
  
Brian nods, moving forward and kissing Brandon softly. It's probably more affectionate than he should be right now, but he's so glad that Brandon is going along with this so easily. "Okay. Blueshirts it is." He stands up again, steps back and pulls off his t-shirt, looking Brandon over and considering his next directive.   
  
"Take your clothes off. One piece at a time. Fold everything and put it neatly on that chair." He points to the chair in the corner of the room, the chair that usually gets covered in their clothes in a more hastily-discarded pile. Brandon nods and stands up, starting to follow Brian's direction. He pulls off his shirt, folds it, then looks over his shoulder as though he's looking for a sign that he's doing things wrong or right. Brian just nods, which encourages Brandon to continue, toeing off his shoes and stripping off his pants.  
  
Brian watches the whole time, not moving, not taking off any more of his own clothes. It occurs to him that he could ask Brandon to do something completely ridiculous right now, try to push him into losing it, but that's so far from the point that he's angry for even thinking it. This is going to be good. This is going to be fun.  
  
And it's going to be  _hot_.  
  
Finished undressing, his clothes folded somewhat neatly, Brandon looks at Brian expectantly. Brian gestures to his teammate, and it only takes Brandon a couple quick steps to be right in front of him. He takes a moment to look at Brandon, enjoy the quick obedience, and then lifts his hand to move his thumb lightly behind Brandon's ear. "Good. You're doing well." He steps a little closer. "Get on the bed, on your back. Hands behind your head."  
  
Brandon's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then those lips press together, a gesture Brian's used to seeing when Brandon has the urge to kiss him but has to hold back—usually it's because they're around other people, and Brian feels a thrill to know that this time it's because he hasn't granted Brandon permission. Then Brandon nods and does as he's told, crawling onto the bed, lying on his back, and settling down on the covers. His legs relax slightly parted, then he frowns and pulls them together—and then he looks adorably confused and pulls his legs apart again. Brian has to smother a smile, but still moves to help him out.  
  
He walks over, one eyebrow raised, leaning over and resting his hands on Brandon's legs, holding them still. He can feel Brandon's calf muscles tense under his fingertips, and he's reminded of just how strong Prust is—if he were so inclined, Brandon could probably kick Brian away, flip him, switch the power dynamic in a split second. But Brandon doesn't do that, because Brian's in control here.   
  
He presses down on Brandon's legs slightly. "I'll tell you if you need to do something different. You don't get to make any decisions."  
  
Brandon doesn't respond; in his eyes, Brian can see some internal struggle, and it makes him smile. He knew this wouldn't be easy for Brandon, but that was sort of the point, wasn't it? To learn to hold himself back, not just fly off the handle when he felt provoked. As Brian watches, he sees Brandon settle again, apparently having decided to continue trusting his lover. Boyfriend. Whatever they are.   
  
He leans down, hiding his smile as he gently bites at Prust's hip. "Okay. You're going to stay there; don't move. And I'm going to go get something." He licks over the bite, hears Brandon sigh, then stands up once he's sure Brandon isn't moving.   
  
What he needs is in his bag, borrowed from Dubi after a hushed conversation on the plane. He'd had to make up some story about prank he was planning to pull—which, depending on how one looked at this whole situation, could be the truth in a twisted sort of way—but Dubi hadn't asked any questions, just shrugged and handed him the ziploc bag. He pulls the plastic bag from his duffle, then goes back to sit down on the bed, closer to Brandon's head.  
  
He holds up the bag with a tiny smile, pleased as Brandon's eyes go wide as he takes in the bundle of zip ties. Brian grins wider. "Just your hands. And I won't hurt you."  
  
This is the part he's most unsure of—while he knows Brandon won't have an issue taking direction, he's not entirely sure how well Prust will react to being in restraints. If he's being honest with himself, he's not sure how well he'll handle doing the restraining. Brian has to trust himself the same way Brandon has to, trust that he won't hurt him just like he promised.  
  
Brandon hasn't moved, hasn't said a word—particularly the safe word—so Brian plows ahead. "Give me your hands," he says. Brandon hesitates, and Brian narrows his eyes and repeats the command. "Prust. Give me your hands."  
  
He almost has to say it again, but then Brandon's hands move over his head towards Brian, wrists pressed together and fingers curled into fists. Brian looks at Brandon's face, momentarily breathless from the naked trust he sees there. Brandon's still not entirely sure about this, that's also clear, but he's putting all of himself in Brian's hands. For a moment Brian is overwhelmed by that trust... then he remembers he's going to tie his firecracker of a boyfriend up, and he grins widely, feeling devilish all the more when Brandon presses his lips together again.  
  
He opens the bag and pulls out one single zip tie, then puts the bag on Brandon's stomach as he starts to carefully wrap it around Brandon's wrists, pulling it tight enough to keep Brandon's hands in position, but not tight enough to risk cuts. He might still end up with a few marks lingering, particularly if he struggles—Brian finds himself hoping that will happen, that he might catch Brandon trying to hide red marks with his gloves tomorrow.   
  
Beneath his fingers, he can feel Brandon's pulse quickening, and Brian looks up at his face again. Brandon's lips are parted, but not slack, as though he's considering speaking. Brian waits patiently, in case he calls out the safe word to bring this to an end, but when no sound comes out, he kisses the beat-up knuckles, smiling when he can both see and feel Brandon relax again.   
  
Brian, though, is starting to get nervous. Despite thinking about this for several days, he somehow had never really planned what he'd do once he had Brandon obedient and restrained. Part of him always doubted that Brandon would let it get this far, that they'd end up under the covers together, making out and getting each other off like normal, laughing about Brian trying to make Brandon behave. He bites his lip, looking over Prust with interest, and feels his resolve settle in—he's going to see this through to the end.  
  
Decision made, now all Brian can think about is how eager he is to drive Brandon wild. He moves Brandon's hands quickly up over Brandon's head, grinning as Brandon gasps, and he kisses the bound man's forehead. He pulls back slightly, makes sure that Brandon's not going to move, and then begins to kiss his way down his boyfriend's body.   
  
The season is still young and and they haven't been together long. A few kisses over the summer had been almost something they could ignore, but as soon as they'd locked eyes in the practice rink's locker room a couple months ago, Brian knew that this was something that wasn't going away. They requested to room together, and after a couple weeks in Europe at the start of the season, followed by the early Canadian trip, it seemed odd to sleep alone even at home. It felt fast and desperate, but Brian loved every minute of it, and so despite the short time, he felt very confident in his knowledge of Brandon's body, his ability to make this man writhe and whine.   
  
He begins to kiss his way down, eager to see if Brandon will hold himself completely still, or if Brian will have to remind him of the rules. (He doesn't think it's too strange to want to have to give a reminder.) He drags his tongue across Brandon's light beard, always loving the way the hairs pull against it; down Brandon's neck he drops open-mouthed kisses, wishing he had the balls to leave a hickey, to mark Prust as his.   
  
Over Brandon's collarbone and down his chest, and it's when Brian licks Brandon's nipple that Brandon loses his control and twitches under Brian's tongue. Quickly Brian bites just hard enough to sting, and he murmurs, "No. Stay still." Immediately Brandon goes still—almost limp, but mostly just still.  
  
The journey downward continues, and Brian kisses, licks, bites, and sucks the whole way. He can feel Brandon's abs tighten, but he doesn't actually flinch and stays in control, so Brian doesn't reprimand him. He gets to Brandon's groin, but as tempting as the idea of pressing his lips and tongue to the stiff dick is, he skips over it. He instead drags a lick along one particular spot on the inside of Brandon's left thigh, which pulls a squeak from Brandon.   
  
Brian knew that would happen, and he doesn't make any comment on it.   
  
Instead he stands up, grinning, and at last he pulls off his pants, his smile turning to a smirk as he watches Brandon's eyes flick down to check Brian's state of arousal. Yes, Brian is hard; he reaches down to stroke himself a few times, and he sees Brandon bite his lip. A glance higher shows that Brandon's fingers are clenched tighter, too. But he's staying still, and now the power is starting to seep into Brian's veins—it's warm and intoxicating, and Brian feels fucking cheeky.  
  
"What am I going to do to you, Prust?" he asks, a tease in his voice. "I have so many options, and they all sound amazing." He keeps stroking himself, stopping only once to spit into his hand and slick himself a little more. Usually Brandon likes to do that for him, and he can see that Brandon's eyes are fixed on his movements and his breathing is picking up. But as much as Brian is now almost itching for Brandon to break, to give Brian a reason to punish him, Brandon is holding still and being incredibly good. It's sort of impressive, and Brian is really turned on by it.  
  
He gets an idea, climbing onto the bed and straddling Brandon's stomach. Brian pulls himself faster, jerking off like there's no tomorrow. He can feel Brandon twitching against his ass, hear Brandon breathing harder, see Brandon's fingers flexing and clenching.  
  
Best of all, Brandon's fighting the zip tie, wrists pulling so the plastic digs in. There will certainly be marks, at least for the rest of the night. They're going out to dinner with the boys, and Prust's wrists will be red and raw. Unable to help himself, he rocks against Brandon, whose face is becoming strained in his desperation.  
  
The struggle Brian sees is amazing; next time he'll have to tie Brandon up sooner, tease him longer. Next time;  _next time_. Fuck, he's already expecting this to happen again. He shudders, his hand moving over his dick faster, and he locks eyes with Brandon. Brian presses his other hand against Brandon's side, digging in with his fingers. Brandon lets out a strangled whimper, a sound which goes right to the base of Brian's spine, and that's the last push to send him over the edge. He comes with a groan, shooting his load over Brandon's chest, which makes Brandon whimper again.  
  
As Brian comes down from his orgasm, Brandon's dick twitches, hot, hard, and dripping against his ass. Brandon hasn't come yet, and a shiver runs down his spine when he realizes that the reason Brandon hasn't come is because Brian never said he  _could_. Arousal rushes through Brian; he'd fucking come again if he fucking could.  
  
He takes a deep breath, putting his hands on Brandon's chest and stomach and smearing his come. He speaks in a low voice, aiming for maximum seduction. "You like that, baby? Like seeing me get off because you can't touch me?"  
  
Brandon shudders under his hands, and Brian laughs softly. "Such excellent discipline, Brandon. You really deserve a reward." He leans forward slightly, murmuring to Brandon more intimately; the shift in position lets Brandon's dick fit perfectly along Brian's crack. "Would you like to come, Prust?"  
  
Brandon nods, but Brian shakes his head. "No," he says, voice firm. "You have to tell me what you want. And say please." He smirks, feeling confident in his demands.   
  
Brian is impressed how Brandon has avoided falling apart yet, even as he swallows hard before answering. "Yes. I want to come. Please." Brandon's voice is almost shaking with need as he begs for permission. His eyes are wide and beneath his beard his cheeks are flushed, down his neck and onto his chest. He licks his lips and speaks again: " _Please_."  
  
His voice is so earnest that Brian can't stand to deny Brandon any longer; he moves back against Brandon's prick just slightly and says simply, "Come."  
  
Brandon obeys instantly, coming hard over Brian's ass and back. He also comes with a shuddering groan, loud enough that Brian suddenly worries that whoever the fuck is next door can hear. He leans down and swallows the groan with a deep kiss, licking into his mouth, his knees squeezing Brandon's sides. Brandon bucks against him, getting them slick as they slide against each other, and soon enough they'll be sticky as their come dries. Once Brandon's hips settle and the groaning into Brian's mouth stops, Brian ends the kiss, pulling back so they can both stare at each other, breathing hard.  
  
Brian's heart is pounding, and he's pretty sure it's not just from the sex. They don't look away from each other, and Brian tries to let it settle in his head just how incredibly intense and  _intimate_  that just was. His chest feels tight, tight in ways he's certain he shouldn't be feeling after a couple months of being with this man. It's enough to make him want to pull away saying "Blueshirts" over and over again, but instead he presses his hand to Brandon's cheek and kisses him again, sighing softly as he feels Brandon arch up against him as he returns the kiss.  
  
He reaches up with his other hand to trace his fingers along the zip ties around Brandon's wrists, then up to nudge into Brandon's fists. Brandon's fingers relax, and as they do so does the rest of his body. Their kiss ends again, and Brian smiles against Brandon's lips.   
  
"You are amazing," he whispers, nuzzling his nose against his partner's. Brandon lets out a little whine, and Brian chuckles. "Oh, you can talk and move again. We're done, babe."  
  
"Jesus  _fuck_ ," Brandon says, bringing his still-bound hands around Brian's neck as he surges up to kiss him again. "What the  _fuck_  was that, Boyler? Holy fucking  _shit_." He ducks his head and laughs against Brian's cheek. "Where did you even...?"  
  
Brian laughs as well, sitting up and pulling Brandon with him. "I have  _no_  idea," he admits, "but it was pretty fun, right?" He hesitates, running a hand over Brandon's shoulder. "Wasn't it?"  
  
Brandon nods, smiling his dopey smile that Brian is constantly trying to get directed to him. "Fun doesn't even begin to describe it," he says. "It was... well,  _fuck_."   
  
With another soft laugh, Brian runs his hands up Brandon's arms, lifting them over his head and extracting himself from Brandon's embrace. "Pretty much, right?" He presses a kiss to Brandon's wrists. "Let me get this off you." Somewhat reluctantly, he gets up and heads for the bathroom, dampening a cloth and grabbing his Swiss Army knife out of his toiletries bag. He returns to the bed, finding Brandon lying down flat again, his arms extended and fingers flexing.   
  
"You look really hot like that," he says, wiping the cloth over his own stomach. "All fucked and eager for more."  
  
"I don't think I'm up for more quite yet, Bri."   
  
Brian smiles and tosses the cloth down on Brandon's stomach, then pulls the main blade out of the knife. Holding Brandon's wrists carefully, he slides the blade under the plastic band, pulling at an angle to avoid any stupid injuries that would require far too much explanation to the team doctors. The zip tie falls away, and there are indeed obvious marks left on Brandon's wrists.  
  
"Shit," Brian says, his voice hushed. He folds the blade away and chucks the knife in the direction of his bag, then holds his boyfriend's wrists in his hands. "Does it hurt?" he asks, thumbs stroking over the red indentations.  
  
Brandon smiles, shakes his head. "Naw. Not really. Maybe a little uncomfortable, but, y'know, no pain."   
  
Taking a deep breath, Brian kisses the marks, then drops onto the bed on his side, smiling when Brandon turns on his side as well, scooting closer and letting their legs entwine. Brian wraps one arm around Brandon's waist. "You're okay, right? Right?"  
  
" _Yeah_ , Brian." Brandon bumps his forehead against Brian's. "Would've said the safe word if I wasn't."  
  
Brian nods. "Right, of course." His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "We've got a team dinner tonight, Bran. You... you gonna be able to, um...."  
  
Brandon chuckles softly. "I have long-sleeved shirts, you know. And I've got some bracelets." He kisses Brian warmly. "Don't worry, I won't tell everyone what a dom you are."  
  
Brian sputters, feeling his face flush. "A, a dom! I'm not, what?" He smacks Pruster's ass. "You won't tell because that makes you my submissive, then."  
  
Brandon snorts, rolling his eyes. "I'm not  _submissive_ , Boyle."  
  
"Maybe not," Brian says, leaning forward a bit, pushing Brandon onto his back, "but you're still  _mine_."   
  
If Brandon has any argument for that, it's lost in Brian's kiss.


End file.
